


Hatred

by Anonymous



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Consent Issues, Implied Maxwell/Them - Freeform, Implied Past Rape/Non-Con, Implied past torture, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There is no happy story, and there is no happy end.There is rain, a debt unpaid, whatever They are willing to give; nothing left, after that.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anonymous





	Hatred

Today had not ended on a good note.

It hadn't led up with good notes either, getting shaken awake early morning dark light and told to check the traps, a breakfast of tasteless water logged berries and tools falling apart and slipping from the hands as spring rains poured, thunder off in the distance and the sparse lightening that sent his partner into jittery anxiety fits. Those were far lessened from what they had used to be, and the man didn't run off and hide any longer from the flash of light and sharp sound, only grit his teeth and steeled his shoulders, terrified and yet even more so angry at it all.

Spring was a mildly good season; farms grew fruitful, berries and trees and fruits of any sort, wild animals breeding and having gaggles of young all about allowing their hunts to go easier and the search for eggs of many birds, tall or small, was rewarding enough. 

But hunger was not the issue either of them had for this season. It was the rain that drew it all foul.

Constant and cold and almost as if never ending, a humidity when it did somehow let up that never dried itself out, only to slosh back down in torrents that could only be toughened through via lean to's or well moated tents or hiding out in caves.

Those great caverns flooded just as badly as up above however, so retreat was sometimes not an option.

Nightfall had brought with it a calm from the storms, grass heavy with water and shoes and socks sodden straight through, but food was in surplus and supplies were all accounted for the two of them, lanterns at the ready in case the rains put out any attempt at a fire.

Moods, however, were severely lacking. They had been arguing all day, aggravating and nitpicking at every little offense, and he himself was purely antagonistic, mean words sliding from his tongue and snaggled teeth as he belittled the other man every time he dropped a slippery tool, every time one of the alchemy machines fuses blew in his hands due to water contamination, every little slip up and trip in water sodden grass.

Perhaps he had pushed it a little too far, curling his lips into a grinning snarl and mocked his partner every time he jolted, flinched and went still and wide eyed at crackling far off lightning, trauma of surviving so many strikes somehow hilarious enough for him to bring it up time and time again.

Eventually he had broken the camel's back, a snide little comment under his breath that had the other man twist on his heel and shove him, a brief push and barred angry teeth, face curled into frustrated rage as the floodgates opened up.

That devolved into a screaming match, and he wasn't going to be talked over or interrupted and neither knew what the other was saying at one point but it became a physical altercation when he had jabbed the other man's chest with one finger, pointing and hissing and in general being a foul person.

 _"Don't touch me."_ Was what was said in answer back, a dark voice and even darker, serious eyes, but he had cracked a crooked smirk, amused at the show and all too full of ego as he stepped forward once more, into that bubble of personal space just to do it again.

_"And what, pray tell, will you do to stop me?"_

_"I said, don't touch me or else."_

Even that hadn't given his aggravating need to create more and more drama a moments pause, and then he leaned close, only a few inches between their faces, his pitch black eyes locked to the dark storm clouds of his peeved partner.

This time, he enunciated his words with each jab, pointed and crookedly smirking all the way.

_"Or else what, pal?"_

There had been no vocal answer to that one, only a painful star smacking headbutt to his chin, fists added to the mix as he belatedly realized he had crossed a line, but by then he was struggling and fighting back, biting where he could and raking his gloved claws through what clothing he could catch on.

And, just like every other time it's fallen to this, he lost near immediately.

Those cold clammy hands, damp now as calloused rough fingers grasped at his throat, had wrapped themselves about his neck and the weight on his chest was slowly crushing the air out of him but it was the least of his worries as he had weakly struggled against that grip, kicking his legs and trying to throw the other man off in wild jerks and flailing.

It was all in vain, of course, but his eyesight was going hazy and gray fog smeared, gaping for air as those hands crushed tighter and his heaving brought nothing to his lungs, gasping and pitifully twitching, a weakness sucking at his limbs and tugging, pulling him back into the darkness-

And then the grip was gone and a flooding sensation of air, choking on the cold oxygen that rushed back through him and his starved brain. His limbs took a bit longer to get a hold of, shaking something terrible before finally gathering enough to curl into a fetal position, hands to his throat and gaping like a fish out of water as he recovered. The mud and stringy wet grass made the experience all the more unpleasant, sticking to his suit and skin and reminding him of it all, before a crack of thunder miles off was able to break off his panic into normalcy and struggled breaths.

The other man looked down at him, face a drawn line of a scowl and nothing else with his hands curled into fists at his hips and face disheveled from their bickering, hair smeared down in the wet tumble they had done but most obviously already starting to rise and knot up.

 _"Storms coming around again. I don't want to be caught out here with it, so let's get going."_ Not even an acknowledgement of the almost murder attempt, just a turn of the heel and scoop up of the forgotten near empty backpack, tromping off back to camp.

He had rubbed his throat, felt the dull sore pain of handprints to his skin, before shakily pulling himself to his feet and getting on with it.

It hurt to swallow, still blurry and light headed, but as if he had any other options.

It had been his fault, no denying that. He deserved more than that as payment anyhow, so his ill will dissipated into general unhappiness, a dull dark tugging drain to the empty cavern of his chest and settling down comfortably. Worse, to feel that hidden tint of relief.

It was enough to shut him up, giving his throat time to rest, and the air between them was stilted and off but he could deal with it, he could deal just fine.

The evening passed in tense silence, ignoring each other besides the brief interaction, the briefest passing of items and materials, averting eyes whenever either dropped a rain slicked tool or huffed curses under their breath. The sodden rains were lax for the night, or at least for now, and starting a fire with soaked green wood was a feat in of itself but the other man got it down quick enough.

Dinner was raw ingredients; neither were up for actual cooking, so it was berries and rabbit flesh sizzling over the open fire.

Not for him, of course. Such foods may be plentiful right now, but the thought of eating such things twisted his gut and pricked a headache to the back of his eyes and the revulsion was strong at even the thought of consuming any of it.

And not as if his partner was offering him anyhow; it was obvious he had crossed a line, and the sore swelling of every swallow from his throat was evidence enough to keep his distance. Greasy precooked hound flesh and bready blue mushroom caps were good enough to settle his stomach, as well as the itching nag of his own inner temptations. He'd rather not spend his night scratching bloody lines to his wrists, just to acknowledge that those old chains were indeed cut away and that there was _feeling_ underneath it all.

He could handle it, heavy lumps in his gut and minor aches and pains, bruises ringing his neck. He's done far worse to the other man, and this was just another drop to the payments he owed.

He had believed he'd spend the night outside, tending to the fire and squinting through any coming rains. The umbrellas were in good enough shape, his own patchwork to them having kept through the seasons, and the aches and pains were survivable; insomnia was inevitable, a low headache drilling the back of his mind already and just getting worse in the low lighting, and sleep would not come tonight.

His partner had not spoken a single complete sentence to him since they entered camp together, a sullen mood that he kept his distance from, and he must look a sight, bruises ringing his throat like a well deserved noose, yellows and purples darkening and tender to the touch. The blue caps had helped ease some of the pain, encouraged a pain killer like response for now, though slick fatty hound meat pricked it right back into that minor burn and thick swallowing. 

He'd not complain. He's been complaining all day, and now it was evident that the other man was on a short temper, and even shorter patience.

So when he felt a hand at his shoulder, breaking his gaze from the fire to see his partner scowling at him, he had been ill prepared for a request to join the other's tent tonight.

His own was a sagging sad thing, not much lived in due to his frequency of sleeping in the others lodgings, but he had been resigning himself to a cold and wet night. Not an invitation, and certainly not the twitching shadow of dark uncertainty on the other man's face as he had slowly stood up, aches and pains and popping, creaking bones in this humidity.

He almost said something snarky back, a twist of a grimaced snarl on his face that almost looked maniacally amused, but his throat rasped at his first exhale, pain filtered like through muffled molasses, so he had swallowed his pride and anxieties and inhibitions, eyes cast downward as he nodded his head, followed through the offering.

Saying no had never been in his arsenal, after all. Before this world and after, and he didn't think he could ever object to the other man's advances, or more like requests for intimacy.

There was little affection there, at times. He didn't grow bitter to this, however; acknowledging his own part at play, and his own weakness, meant accepting the consequences.

There was also no love in this, even he couldn't pretend for something like that, but he could press his face to warm sweat slick skin and imagine the possibility all the same.

He was a pitiful man, after all. Taking what he could get, even this, was all he had left.

The hands on him inside the tent were firm, determined, not at all a hint of the softness he'd crave most nights, no yearning or forewarning or the soft words he himself would try to engage in before he was firmly pushed to his back and thus even more firmly ignored.

This wasn't the first time such a different air has taken over for him, no. Experience reared its head and he knew this was a foul time to have sex, especially after what had happened, but his throat hurt and his ego was wounded and his skin _crawled_ with a pitiful sensitivity that he oh so wanted to remedy.

He enjoyed sex just as much as the next person, perhaps even more so. Not many people around these parts ever offered, nor accepted him, so any chance to have it occur was a chance he'd take.

Even if it was a bit rough handed.

Even if one of those hands circled threateningly about his throat, burned the yellowing dark bruises and made swallowing difficult, breathing picking up into shallow strained inhales, exhales.

Even if the darkness hid near everything he could still feel that internal glare, that hidden away scowl, hovering over him, masked as a nervous, pinched indifference, as that other hand got a firm, too firm grip to his waist.

Even as, for only a moment of hesitance where the other man rubbed up against him, teased and testing as he whistled in air and narrowed his own eyes, forcing himself to relax, wait it out-

He was used to more touch, more foreplay. His partner was a gentleman, after all, and usually there was a certain amount of patience to this, respect and time.

Not tonight, however, and he had screwed up his eyes and hissed low when that weight shoved itself forward, parted and pushed roughly inside him to settle deep, those hands tightening about his throat with a silent warning and the low huffing groan of the man atop him. He wasn't slick enough, wasn't ready enough, but that didn't seem to matter.

What mattered was when his partner gathered his breath, tightened his hands and steadied himself before the first thrust.

That devolved into a quick, short pace, huffing hot breath to his skin, not even the briefest touch of affection in the act and it wasn't intimacy but just frustration, feeling it through the other man as he closed his eyes tight, weight on his elbows and aching push that forced itself through his lower half, over and over and over again.

The only thing he could appreciate at the moment was that brief feeling of the other growing harder, panting more vigorously at the beastal act, using him and near nothing else.

He supposed it was something he also deserved. He's done worse, remember? Another drop of blood to the bill, so to speak, though thankfully his body reacted to the roughness and nothing actually tore at the harsh treatment.

That would have ended the night early, and perhaps his eyes watered a bit and a heavy sodden feeling rose to his chest, a sickly nausea lodging in his throat as he focused his breathing, rode it all out, but it wasn't, it wasn't all too _bad._

He knew bad, after all. He knew terrible, he knew force, he knew grooming and rape, as he has enacted himself in the far past upon that Throne of Terror and Shadows and all too much Power, and now paid dearly for it in the true present, the coming future. This was borderline, but he himself had consented and now he clawed his hands into the blankets, didn't dare touch the other man as he was thrust into with little care to his own willingness.

Something else he deserved of course. Nothing else to it.

Gritting his jaw, hissing pants as the pace grew faster, heavier and those groans atop him grew a hint louder, gasped out with more abandon, and a sweaty forehead pressed to his chest, panted breathes hot and sticky to his skin as the hand about his neck pulled away finally.

Went to his hips, latched on and forcefully adjusted him, not a word or hint or hum before the pace grew vigorous. If he, for just a few moments, raised a trembling hand and combed his fingers through that greasy mess of hair, felt the tense shudder through the other man at his touch, felt the air go rougher at his weakness, then it was something he had long ago forced himself to ignore.

All he could do was steel himself and tough it out, face a curved snarl and eyes shut to the world as the roughness washed through him in sickly stains.

It clung, webbed through and eating away the little pleasure he had since acquired, and by now all he wished for was for it to end but he already knew the other man had a backload of stamina, was long going at times. Rushing this might injure him more, or make the experience worse than it already was.

So he sat there and took it, air thrust from his lungs as those movements got heavier, more forceful, a single minded focus into fucking him, into him, and it was prickling hurt and pains from his lower body and even more so the gaping mess of emotion in his chest but he had agreed to it, walked his way in, and his partner was the only one who would ever have him so this was all he could ever achieve and own.

He'd take whatever he could get, and a rough fucking, wavering into almost nonconsensual at this point was what he'd ever get a hold to.

Something he's accepted a long, long time ago.

When it was finally over, when the other man let out a whistling groan and tensed, jerked against him and tightened his hands and body went still and wound tight, bursting like waves to a rugged shore, it almost missed him. 

Having fallen backwards into numb patience, wait it out, he was ever so patient and waiting was his specialty now, he's learned it so well, it was second nature. Listening to his partner come back around, a sore heat blossomed under his gut and aches and pains in his thighs, bruised waist and the sweaty locks of hair and forehead leaning heavy to his chest, panting for air, all he could get himself to do was curl his hands tighter into the blankets and hope that would be all.

His partner could have more rage pent up in his chest, waiting to blow off the steam, and he was always right here, ready and willing. It wouldn't be fair of him to turn down this outlet, not after all he's done to this man, the pain and suffering and _torture_ , and he'd never pay back that eternal debt but he would surely let himself be fucked if that would help.

It...it didn't sit right, most all times, to know this. To know he was just some willing hole for his partner to stick himself into and fuck rough for near an hour, and then to roll over and pretend it never happened. To never have that, that intimacy his skin craved, his very much rotted through heart sobbed for.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, ignoring the vague wetness of his eyes and the shakes and pains and his hands that trembled in fits that matched the pounding beat in his chest, the pulsing pains that only condensed inside his hollow, rotten heart, and for a moment he stuttered in a breath and made himself appreciate that he had been given the chance anyhow.

As if anyone else would ever touch him willingly again. He had to take what he could get, or else his very skin would eat itself alive and he'd be even more pitiful than he already was. If being fucked into without love or affection was all he had available, then he had to take it for what it was and be grateful.

A few moments later and his faint wishes were granted; his partners hands brushed against his skin for a moment, only a moment as the other man sat up, pulled out with a disgusting sound and shuddering repulsive feeling before rolling over and pulling the blankets up to wiggle under.

Leaving him hollow and shivering, face a grit snarl and eyes squeezed shut tight, keeping his breath near silent in the leftover flagging panic, sobs. It always affected him so badly, no matter how many times it has happened, and it felt as if, as if another slivered shatter glass of his rotten heart splintered, hit hard and burst into dust and sand and-

Nothing, nothing left at all. Perhaps he could look forward to the day when whatever was left in his chest finally gave up the ghost; spending eternity as some hollow, emotionless undead thing might not hurt so much, in the end.

Good lord he could almost not wait for it. The temptation of feeling nothing, of _being_ nothing, was thick and hard and lumpy in his throat, thankfully choked up whatever pathetic sobs were trying to escape him.

The frustrated slick of his own body compounded the feeling, made his chest tight, but all he did was turn away, lay on his side facing away from the other man and curl his legs up, squeeze himself into an almost ball as he wrapped his arms about his chest. The aches and pains were background noise, even the sickly heat below his gut was just background, and gritting his jaw, huffing a silent sound from his nose as he curled up and shivered, eyes tightly shut, the emotional upheaval was heavy and messy in his chest, trying to get out.

If he could he'd scream. Rage out to the world, stomp and kick and, and sob, but doing so was pitiful and undeserving and what right did he have to it?

He's done worse, he reminded himself. He deserved far worse.

He had to take what he could get, and appreciate the offer. 

Even if getting fucked like this tore up his heart and leaked his will out in gashes, hemorrhaging his soul and every little pathetic thing that made him _him_ out into the open air. 

As if that was reason enough to stop though. His partner knew who he was, knew him near through and through, and if fucking him to the ground without care was what the other man thought of him then that was what he has become. 

_Take what you can get,_ he reminded himself. _It's all you'll ever be good for anymore._

Still, choking down his own sobs and waiting for the quiet, the soft snores of his partner as he drifted off to sleep and left him to ever painful wakefulness, it was all the more stressing that he wished for it to all end.

It was too bad that he just couldn't stay dead. If he even had the inkling that it would work he'd tear the lifeblood from his wrists without a second thought, relish that sting of pain and curl up alone somewhere to die.

Everyone dies alone in the end, after all. It was always cold and heart wrenching and painful, so painful, but if there was even the sparest of chances that it would work he'd take it in a heartbeat and never come back.

It's what everyone wanted of him anyhow. Life would be so much easier without him around, and good god did he look forward to the day where it would all end and he'd be gone for good.

The thought made his chest ache, tears in his eyes that he couldn't quite put down, but his throat stayed swollen shut and his body ached and was sore in the worst of ways and that was all he'd get for now.

All he'd ever get.

The night wore on, dragged on, and sleep eluded him over and over, a drag to his eyelids and a weighty weakness to his limbs but insomnia nipping at his heels all too continuously. There would be no rest for him tonight, and finally heaving a sigh, a heavy one that near felt as if tearing out and dropping a chunk of his inner chest, his very heart out, he took in a breath and made himself sit up.

His lower back ached, hips screaming at the soreness, the rough chapping he could already feel down there, he had really not been prepared at all and now the pains would reflect that, but it was just something he swallowed, held in deep and shoved far deeper down through his chest.

The lump in his throat grew larger, rose up when he glanced to the sleeping form of his partner, a prickling to him that near stuttered his breath, and the aching need, want to cuddle close, hold to and pretend it was all more than it really was became an almost unbearable thing, pounding in tandem with his rotten heart.

He already knew the other man wanted nothing of him. He already knew what, who he was in his partners eyes, and now reduced to this, something to vent frustrations upon, whether that be having rough sex or literally strangling to death, it was what he knew he deserved.

He's done worse, to this man and to many others. Paying up was his death sentence, forever more, and he shan't complain about it.

Even if his body felt full of sobs, wanted to heave and vomit this aching mess up and wail out the pains. 

He fucked up enough as it was, and he was his own downfall. This was pittance, this was karma, fate.

It was what he deserved.

It would be always what he deserved, and there was nothing more he could do to fix it.

Messed it up far enough; there was no use in trying anymore.

…good god did he want to die, so terribly nowadays. He could wish all he wanted, but knowing it would never end was almost as terribly hopeless.

He knew it was useless, selfish, but he truly did hope it would stop, one day. That everything that was him would empty and turn to dust, salty sand, _nothing_ , and he'd be forgotten.

That sat ugly in his chest but he couldn't complain about that neither. One of his long childish fears was to be forgotten, forever, wasn't it?

Awfully ironic that he now wished for it with all that was left of his rotted heart. 

It...it would be so _freeing_ , wouldn't it…?

A few moments of gathering himself, before painstakingly slow he brushed the blankets off, quietly slipped away from the warm stinking space of sex. Wiggling an undershirt on, not nearly enough in him to clasp up the mess of underclothing right now or even finishing buttoning up his shirt, and then slipping on his worn out suit jacket, loose about his shoulders and not bothering to button that up either. Shuffling the trousers on was too much of a chore, so he bothered only with boxers, loose and ill fitting to his emancipated structure, bony and thin skinned.

Funny, how perhaps starvation might get to him soon. Mushrooms and poisonous monster flesh would only get him so far after all, and it twisted him something terrible in the meantime.

Very briefly he pressed a hand to his bloated gut, brushed the shirt back and ran his hands to his exposed ribs, then back down to his sharp hip bones, the soft, thin, bruised skin, pallid and cold, clammy as a corpse.

Well, somehow even like this he had still been good enough to fuck. Something he should keep in mind, haha, right?

The cold spring air outside washed away the faint lingering remains of odors, but it couldn't clean off the disgusting sheen of sweat still on him, still clinging to him in the pains of his lower body and the shiver shakes of his limbs.

Vaguely he rather wished that he had been strangled to death today. A laid out corpse in the cold wet muck, dying by the hands of the one he, perhaps, may love in the worst of ways, and it twisted his belly and tingled through his nerves, made his wrists itch and scratch and _burn._

A simple shake of the head, gritting his jaw tight and hissing in a breath, and his heart pounded hard in his chest and his body ached and shivered and shook and good _god_ did he want to die.

It ate its way deep within him, a thin soon to be corpse that fed temptation and made him weak, weaker in the knees, almost as good as reciprocated sex, and it hung over his head and had him squeeze shut his eyes, breath in deep against the lump in his throat and the nag of his own wrists, of his traitor pulse, but he had no right to it.

He's almost died once today and has been fucked into the ground for an hour or two tonight; used up all his tokens, and it wouldn't be right of him to finish himself off just yet. Let his partner get to it, do the dirty work on a later date, let him die alone and in pain.

For now, he had to ignore the urge. A difficult task at times, especially now as he shivered in the faint fire light and wrapped his thin arms about himself, but making a beeline to his sagging tent would be enough.

He can't give in to the temptations just yet, not as of yet, but self medicating was fine. He's perfected the way to handle in the daze of quiet and near _freedom_ by now, even if no one approved.

As if anyone has ever approved of his doing. This, at the very least, only ever affected him at the most.

Inside was as pitiful as outside, which in a way was possibly a way of describing himself. Ironic, huh?

Either way, it was dark and cold, tinted with the chill of spring rains still, a bit damp and molded from lack of care or even forethought, but the raggedly worn blankets were still there, the thin stuffingless pillow was still there, a few packs and bags and a singular small chest, wood bloated in the humidity.

And, near underneath that sagging empty pillow, was the Codex Umbra.

It whispered to him, called, but he needn't even hear it once to come around anyways. There was something of it that he wanted, no matter its own soft cries.

Which it immediately started to do when he wrapped his hands to its spine, its pages as he slid to his knees in the damp bedding, shaking hands carefully letting the pages brush his numb fingertips by. Its sobs grew in horror, knowing what had been done to him, knowing what he intended to do to himself, but it was woefully ironic truly.

The Codex also knew exactly what he had done, what he had taken pleasure and enjoyment from, sadism and ego fueling the pain he has wrought with the old tomes help, so he did not give its whimpers any mind.

Faint nightmare trails of shadow hands reached out to him from its pages, dark foggy things, soft and weak, pitiful as they latched to his loose sleeves, trailed his unbuttoned clothing, cold slimy brushes to exposed skin and knobby knees in the drips and drops of the oily fuel, but with a faint half hearted sneer, not quite even forming the full expression in the flooding numb apathy that had slowly creeped up in his chest, settled and buzzing a brain fog up in mere moments of determination, he easily swiped away the bemoaning apparitions and dismissed the soft whispers and cries. The Codex whimpered at his dismissal, strained in the oily bloom of its pages, but it could not dissuade him from what he was doing.

Which was this: clawing a hand above the pages, focusing and forcing, and then spreading his clawed fingers palm down, he swiftly, in one familiarly known action, pulled a heavy swathe of nightmare fuel from the tomes very pages.

The strands tried to cling, tried to keep a hold, but the old tome seemed to know this was a fight it could not win and finally let him have the overlarge globule, warm and buzzing numb in the palm of his hand.

It cried, like it always did. A part of him wanted to sweep it up close, hold tight to his chest, feel it's feverish pulses and the shadow fuel fingers that would seep out and grab a hold to him in turn, almost as tightly as his grip would be to it. It would hum, then, hum and slowly sing its only known tune, softer and slower than that old hated gramophone, and he would sit there on his knees, Codex held close and eyes shut tight as he tried to take the little comfort it was willing to give him.

He knew it had no love for him, so much like the man he left behind in the bigger, warmer tent. Whatever strain of relationship this was, what he had with the shadows and Them, there was no love lost on a stringless puppet.

…Unlike himself, he sometimes thought. It was thought enough for him to hold out his free hand, close up the Codex and run his fingers down the emblem, drag to the spine and feel the shadows shiver from his touch, his attention.

So much like himself, he thought. All it wanted was to be held and to be given thorough attention, and yet in the end he was the only one who was willing to do so. How pitiful he must be, for an old book to not even want him so strongly?

He did not pull the tome to himself, to hold and hug and try to glean a hint of comfort from; no, instead he set it back to its place underneath the thinning pillow, hidden away, safe. The nightmare oils in his hand wrapped and clung and swayed as he moved, the fusion of gelatin like substances dribbling only slightly down his wrist, stained his jacket sleeve, but he paid it little mind.

Once the Codex was safely tucked away, ignoring its pleading whispers, its wants and needs, he turned himself away, scooted closer to the tents flap door. He did not leave, no, not in this half dressed state of his, not in this pitiful appearance of sickness, his skin burning up and gut twisting with a nausea he didn't know whether to attribute to the earlier harsh sex or current physical contact with the fuel, but he already knew these aches and pains, so chronic now, so expected each and every day, would leave him soon.

He may not die, no sweet release from what his entire life has led up to with cause and effect, the consequences of all his actions, but...perhaps he could achieve the next best thing.

The Codex whimpered behind him, muffled and defeated, and he didn't even have enough left in him to care. The little he had was reserved, for those who deserved better by the damage wrought by his hands alone; his own presence was a ruin of suffering that deserved no support structure to lean on. If this old corpse of a building was going to go down, then he would do so alone and with no witness. 

...As if there was anyone left, anyone here who would want to help him. They all saw what he was, they all treated him the way he needed to be treated, and whatever complaints still left in him escaped via snide remarks and biting antagonistic comments; enough to keep them from _wanting_ to look deeper.

He didn't want them to, not anymore. Perhaps his previous self, perhaps his younger self by another name would have wanted it, would have wanted to be _saved_ , damsel in distress as he had been.

Not anymore. He knew what he deserved, what the rest of his pitiful life entailed, and someday it may even catch up to him, abandoned and alone by his own understanding choice.

When true death came for him, he will welcome it with open arms.

But, in this place, permanency was ever so far away. He had to wait it out, be patient.

As he has harshly learned to be, oh so long ago.

The nightmare oil was going chill, leeching the warmth from his own bare hand, and after a moment of just breathing, staring into the flashing obscure oils and sitting in the clammy chill of his rotten tent, all by his rotten self, he finally got his wits about him with a steady whistled breath.

And he tilted his head back, tossed his hand up and took the shot of fuel without a hint of complaint.

It hit harder than it used to, he knew. The dilution within his body, his blood stream was worsening, not enough time between doses to filter it out of his system correctly, but as if he ever truly _cared_ about that. What use was it, to understand the extent of true damage, when no one, not even himself, cared any longer?

The thick bite of spice and cold burn filled his mouth, folded over his tongue and then slid down his throat as he fitfully swallowed, and the bile rolled and condensed thick, harsh to the back of his throat as it finally slid far enough down to hit his gut. The immediate sensation had him curl up, arms folded over his chest, hands pressed hard to his belly, his bloated corpse like belly, just like the rest of him.

His breath stuttered, wheezed in a near painful rasp as the sharp cold and fever burn flooded his lungs, rippled through his limbs and made his chest suddenly feel all too heavy, ache as his heart pounded so much slower, harder than it was used to. His fingertips had gone numb, the waves of pain were sparking into pin and needle static, rising and falling and settling to the marrow of his bones, a harsh whimper escaping him in a pitiful exhale.

It didn't use to hurt so much, not back then. Too much, too soon, and not enough time in between; at this point, he found he cared no longer for the details.

As he shuddered, knees drawn up and curled in on himself, the Codex crying as if alongside him, he suffered through the draught as readily as he ever could. It rushed through his system at first, rushed and tore and ate through his flesh in the way that the nightmare fuels were prone to, cutting the ties, strangling the oxygen from his veins and slowly, ever so slowly flooding out and replacing the little that he has been left with from his pathetic excuse of a life.

The Codex and its whimpering whispers were drowned out now, the shadows outside of his tent and Their ever incomprehensible whispers, and he sat there, shivering and shaking and roughing out the first wave.

It was a relief, a blinding haunt of relief when the static turned inwards, dug up his spine in cold arcs, encasing, dulling him out. It settled within him now, deeper than bone and flesh, and after a moment of staying stock still he finally uncurled, a rasping feverish breath escaping him in a sigh.

It washed in waves, cold soothing waves, flooding his brain and oozing throughout his organic, sickly form, and it suffocated the hysteria, the aches and pains, the mania that had almost drawn its talons into him. His head felt heavy, overloaded and undone as he breathed, as he rasped and rattled with that chronic pressure, and for a few moments more his vision showed him nothing, nothing but his dark tent and the wet chill, his world breathing all around him as his own lungs choked, stopped altogether.

They didn't, of course, but it would have felt right if they had. Would have felt...felt so _right_ , if he had finally stopped altogether.

Faintly, under the lapping waves of the fuels effects, the symptoms of overdose, he again felt the tinge of knowing, understanding that he truly, wholeheartedly wished he was dead.

His body felt separated, not his own, movements dull and sluggish, but the scraping pull and tug of movement, like the shift of the tide, were all so soothing, perfect, just _right._

His heart pumped the consumed nightmare fuel through his system, and for a split second underneath the numbing buzz of soothingly cold comfort he could have almost sworn he felt _happy._

It didn't dissipate when he sluggishly dragged himself to his sodden chest, didn't fade even a hint when he jerkily opened it up, dug around as his body sagged and swayed, and the world in all its two toned muteness hummed and whispered and cooed to him in Their loving voices. It didn't even tap off a little bit, when his hands finally wrapped about the razor he had stowed in there.

The other man used to try and keep this away from him, he buzzedly knew, head heavy and yet light, clouded. Eventually his partner had given up, he was so appreciative of that, given up on him like it was always meant to be, and the drill of the headache was only a faint, far away pressure now, everything was just so far, far away.

He knew he could draw it back, just a little. He knew how to do that, how to, to _remember,_ just a little bit. 

Even his gut was settled, in the roiling storm that it has become, and the pains lower than that were all but gone, a slick discomfort that stayed and yet didn't put pressure to him or his mind.

The nightmare fuel was _helping_ , he thought, he knew, and it truly was, a shivering lapse of clouds and waves, washing through him.

Too large a dose, he vaguely understood, just too large, but he couldn't bring himself to truly care.

He never did anyway, right? A low sound, like a laugh, like a whimper, escaped his numb lips, his numb tongue, and behind him the Codex softly cried itself to slumber. It could not stop him now.

As if it had ever had the chance before, haha? No one but he could make such a decision, not anymore, and as he fully knew very well this was what he was so very deserving of.

 _This_ , he thought numbly to himself, when his own dark blood ran down his arm, foul and thick and mixed too sharply with the shadow oils. Another huffed sound, a chuckle crested into a whine, and the pain wasn't there, no matter where the blade was pressed, how deep or harsh he dragged it, pale corpse skin splitting to reveal the disgusting darkened insides that he's always known were inside himself, festering and infecting all that he touched. 

The next sound was more of a sob, and not even the nightmare fuel could take away the tears, lessen the dampness of wet salty drops that mixed with his spilled blood, and his blurry vision, swelled by the shadows influence and mixed high grays and darker pitch blacks, this clusterfuck of poor dull colors that had infested him from his very birth and only grew and throbbed and infected the more he spread, the more he hurt and clawed and bit his place into the world, and now-

Well, now he was doing what must be done, wasn't he? What other choice did he have, to get rid of an infection?

 _Cut it out_ , he thought in the dazed swell of cold and fever and the fuels consumed overdose, and that was what he did.

**

By the time he awoke, the blood had dried to his meager bedding.

The lack of fuel in his system, dispelled and weak in his leftover blood, made the world a dizzy swirl of pain and aches, as he carefully, shakily sat up. His arm was a darkened mess of scabbing and dried darkness, the oily sheen of fuel and his own rotting hints of true blood, but, while he had not been thorough last night, at the very least his sleeves were not stained.

The meager amount of bandaging in the chest was disheartening, but it wrapped fully about his arm, covered his work well enough.

His mind felt foggy, clouded up as he went about the familiar motions. He's done this before, done it numerous times.

He knew what to take care of after.

His bedding would need a good clean later, but his limbs were heavy, laden, his breathing rough and everything in his mind's eye sharpened into a pain that overwhelmed and overstimulated what little his clouded vision could pick up on. The little he could do, for now, was cover the injuries, toss the blood stained razor back into the chest, and briefly brush his hand atop the Codex's silent cover.

It hummed, faintly, at his touch, just enough to tell it that he was still here. That he hasn't left without it as of yet, no matter the temptation, the urge, the opportunity. 

His thick corrupted blood had halted the process, what his fuel addled mind had wished to accomplish, and so he was still to be here amongst the living, for now. A terrible thought, acknowledgment, but now it was only a shuttered sigh, shoulders falling in defeat before he went about dressing himself with the spare clothing he had in his tent. 

The exhaustion clung to him, like it had done last morning, and the morning before, and the morning before. Like this ever continual cycle, of exhaustion and fatigue turned up a notch into snide overconfidence and arrogance, before beaten back down into the use that he was to his partner, what he'd always be for the other man, and anyone else for that matter.

And then, after that, it was the self sabotage, the half hearted suicide. Every day, every night now, layers upon layers, scars upon scars, and it mattered not in the grand scheme of things.

 _He_ did not matter, in the grand scheme of things.

When he left the tent, tired and quiet and aching all over, his partner made a passing remark of how pale he was, the bags under his eyes and the swaying fragile way he moved about.

 _"You should sleep more."_ His eyes did not look upon him, not even a glance as the ice box was opened, closed. The crockpot was set to cook food that he knew he would not eat, as he listened to the other man continue to speak in that neutral, unknowing tone. _"You're starting to look bad again."_

He did a half worn smile, a huffed shake of his head, _'I sleep enough, pal, just fine,'_ and his exhaustion eventually had him take a seat by the fire, cradled his arms together and letting his eyes briefly close to the flames as his partner ate across from him.

 _I like to think you don't know the half of it_ , he wanted to say, words caught in his swollen throat as the pains of not taking care to heal the damage from yesterday set in, _But I know better._

His partner finished up his breakfast, so focused, so quick and neat and orderly even as the humidity truly set in and dampened his hair, and he watched the other man, watched him put things away, organize, fix, create the very world around him to suit his every need.

There was determination on his face, icy focus, and he looked _wonderful._

 _I love you_ , he wanted to whisper, so badly, but the day was begun and chores were to be done and lightning to be avoided and the rain to sodden the both of them down into irritable huffs of damaged goods, and there was no time, no place, as he idly itched the scabs across his arms, as he even more idly allowed himself to spit sadistic poison from his lips the following afternoon.

Perhaps, if he pushed hard enough soon, his partner would kill him. It would take the burden out of his hands, the slits that grew worse and worse about his wrists and arms, and every morning, everytime, no matter what had happened the day before, his thoughts would think in the slow trawl that he's grown used to in his age, in the abuse of nightmare oils and the shadows loving whispers,

_You know it's getting bad again, pal._

_Please, just let it end._


End file.
